F>RICE IS CENTS 






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THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 










<5M 





Successful Rural Plays 

A Strong List From Which to Select Your 
Next Play 

FARM FOLKS. A Rural Play in Four Acts, by Arthur 
i-EWis Tubes. For five male and six female characters. Time 
of playing, two hours and a half. One simple exterior, two 
easy interior scenes. Costumes, modern. Flora Goodwin, a 
farmer's daughter, is engaged to Philip Burleigh, a young New 
Yorker. Philip's mother wants him to marry a society woman, 
and by falsehoods makes Flora believe Philip does not love her. 
Dave Weston, who wants Flora himself, helps the deception by 
intercepting a letter from Philip to Flora. She agrees to marry 
Dave, but on the eve of their marriage Dave confesses, Philip 
learns the truth, and he and Flora are reunited. It is a simple 
plot, but full of speeches and situations that sway an audience 
alternately to tears and to laughter. Price, 25 cents. 

HOME TIES. A Rural Play in Four Acts, by Arthur 
Lewis Tubes. Characters, four male, five female. Plays two 
hours and a half. Scene, a simple interior — same for all four 
acts. Costumes, modern. One of the strongest plays Mr. Tubbs 
has written. Martin Winn's wife left him when his daughter 
Ruth was a baby. Harold Vincent, the nephew and adopted son 
of the man who has wronged Martin, makes love to Ruth Winn. 
She is also loved by Len Everett, a prosperous young farmer. 
When Martin discovers who Harold is, he orders him to leave 
Ruth. Harold, who does not love sincerely, yields. Ruth dis- 
covers she loves Len, but thinks she has lost him also. Then 
he comes back, and Ruth finds her happiness. Price 25 cents. 

THE OLD NEW^ HAMPSHIRE HOME. A New 

England Drama in Three Acts, by Frank Dumont. For seven 
males and four females. Time, two hours and a half. Costumes, 
modern. A play with a strong heart interest and pathos, yet rich 
in humor. Easy to act and very effective. A rural drama of 
the "Old Homstead" and "Way Down East" type. Two ex- 
terior scenes, one interior, all easy to set. Fvdl of strong sit- 
uations and delightfully humorous passages. The kind of a play 
everybody understands and likes. Price, 25 cents. 

THE OLD DAIRY HOMESTEAD. A Rural Comedy 
in Three Acts, by Frank Dumont. For five males and four 
females. Time, two hours. Rural costumes. Scenes rural ex- 
terior and interior. An adventurer obtains a large sum of money 
from a farm house through the intimidation of the farmer's 
niece, whose husband he claims to be. Her escapes from the 
wiles of the villain and his female accomplice are both starting 
and novel. Price, 15 cents. 

A WHITE MOUNTAIN BOY. A Strong Melodrama in 
Five Acts, by Charles Townsend. For seven males and four 
females, and three supers. Time, two hours and twenty minutes. 
One exterior, three interiors. Costumes easy. The hero, a 
country lad, twice saves the life of a banker's daughter, which 
results in their betrothal. A scoundrelly clerk has the banker 
in his power, but the White Mountain boy finds a way to check- 
mate his schemes, saves the banker, and wins the girl. Price 
15 cents. 

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 



FIRST AID 

A War-Time Comedy in One Act 



By 

HELEN BAGG 

Author of ''Whiskers,'' ^'' Why Not Jim P 
*'U?itangIi?ig I'onyy' etc. 




PHILADELPHIA 

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 

1918 






Copyright 191 8 by The Penn Publishing Company 



m 



\i m 



QGLD 49361 

First Aid 



First Aid 



CHARACTERS 

Philip Garden - surgeon^ cotmected with the Afnerican 

Ambulafice Coips in France 
Henri Martin - a tenor from the Opera^ serving 

France in the trenches 
David Manners - - - an English ''Tojnmy'* 

Margaret Spencer - - - -an £?iglish nurse 

Sally Page an American nurse 

Emmeline ... - acoloiedscrub-ivomaii 

Time. — 1918. 
Place. — France. 
Scene. — A field hospital. 



STORY OF THE PLAY 

Sally Page, a young American nurse, has just ar- 
rived at a hospital near the front, in France. The 
surgeon in charge is Philip Garden, whom she has 
loved, and quarreled with in America. Philip has 
become interested in Margaret Spencer, an English 
nurse, but her heart has been given long ago to an 
English officer, David Manners, who disappeared in 
disgrace after a court-martial. A wounded soldier 
hero brought to the hospital proves to be Manners. 
Sally will make no move to bring David and Margaret 
together, but Henri Martin, a French soldier, decides 
to perform " first aid " to the lovers. Through him 
Margaret recognizes David. All her old love for him 
is rekindled. Philip turns to Sally for consolation. 
" I guess I need a little treatment myself." 



COSTUMES, ETC. 

Philip Garden. About twenty-eight. A fine- 
looking man of the energetic type that America has 
sent to France. He wears a white hospital uniform. 

Henri Martin. About forty. He wears a faded 
French uniform of hght blue, with an empty sleeve. 
He is jaunty and good-humored, and his English is 
more fluent than correct. 

David Manners. About thirty. He is a bedrag- 
gled, bearded, unkempt specimen, dressed in what is 
left of an English uniform, and gives the impression 
of weakness rather than actual illness. Head and 
arm bandaged. Bandage on head and also beard, re- 
moved during the play. 

Sally Page. About twenty-six. A pretty Ameri- 
can girl in a Red Cross uniform. She has a brisk and 
competent manner, which with her rather saucy air 
makes her most attractive. 

Margaret Spencer. About twenty-eight. A tall, 
gentle-looking English girl, in a Red Cross uniform. 

Emmeline. About , twenty-five. A good-looking 
young colored woman. Wears a scrub-woman's cos- 
tume, suggesting a uniform such as might be worn by 
employees of a hospital. 



PROPERTIES 

Two hospital cots and medicine stands. Pail of 
water, scrubbing brush and soap. Pile of clean blan- 
kets and towels. Medicine bottles. A surgical instru- 
ment. Physician's thermometer. Cigarettes and 
matches. Knitting materials. A stretcher. Small 
pad and pencil. Box of medicine pellets. Hot water 
bottle. Glass of water. Razor and shaving materials. 
Basin of water. Hand mirror. Telegram. 

If desired (but not absolutely necessary) sound of 
guns to be heard at a great distance and a phonograph 
heard off stage. Sound of guns may be imitated by 
rubbing a bass drum. For the phonograph, if used, 
there should be one or two good opera records for 
tenor voice. 



SCENE PLOT 

BACKINC 




Scene. — A room in a field hospital near the front, 
" somewhere in France." The room may be a tent, 
if desired. Door up c, with interior backing. If the 
room represents a tent the backing is a canvas curtain. 
Door also l. Up l. a hospital cot or bed, and another 
up R. This second cot may be omitted, if necessary. 
R. of the door at c. is a medicine stand, containing bot- 
tles, glass of water, surgical instrument, thermometer, 
etc. L. of the door at c. is a wash-stand with basin 
and pitcher, towel rack. A hand mirror on wash- 
stand. Down L. near door another medicine stand 
with bottles, etc. Chair up l. near bed and another 
down L. At R. a window (may be omitted). At R. 
also a chair and a large chest, containing boxes of 
medical supplies. 



First Aid 



SCENE. — A small room in a field hospital; it may he 
a tent, if desired; something that gives the impres- 
sion of being not very far from the front. There are 
the usual hospital paraphernalia ; two cots, medicine 
stands, chairs, etc. The room should be slightly 
disordered. A door at c. cmd one at L. A window 
at R., if desired, but this is not necessary. The low 
rumble of guns, with an occasional louder sound, 
may be heard intermittently during the play. 

{As the curtain rises, Emmeline, a good-looking 
young colored woman, is on her knees down R., zvith 
a pail of water, scrubbing the floor. ) 

Emmeline. De way men folks does track in de 
mud is shore a calamity! Lan' sakes, if dis yere ain' 
de plumb wettes' country de Lawd ever done made! 
Sometimes I is jest 'bleeged ter wonder ef dere ain' 
somefin' in all dat Kaiser talk 'bout " Me an' God " — 
de way de weather is run over here sure do look like 
it. (Enter at l. Sally Page, in a Red Cross uniform, 
with her a^'ms fidl of blankets, towels, etc.) Now, 
lemme catch 'em tromplin' in any mo' mud an' if I 
don' make 'em believe dat de Day ob Jedgement's 
come, it'll be case I's suddently paralyzed! {She sees 
Sally and, still on her knees, surveys her admiringly. ) 
Mornin', missy. Reckon you all's de new nurse dat 
come in from de base hospital las' night? 

Sally {up l., arranging her blankets on the beds 
and her towels on the racks). Yes, I'm Miss Page — 
from New York. And you ? 



8 FIRST AID 

Emmeline {trying to look modest but failing 
utterly). Vs Emmeline. I jes' scrubs roun'. But 
what dese po', good fo' nuffin' white foiivs would do if 
I was ter be hit by a shell, I sure don' know ! 

Sally. Oh, I see. 

Emmeline (rising). Yassam. I reckon I's First 
Aid if dere is any roun' here. 

Sally (l.). Well, I'm glad you got the floor nice 
and clean. The head nurse said the ambulance would 
be in from the trenches any moment with some more 
wounded. 

Emmeline (r.). Deed, yes, chile, woundeds is de 
plentifullest tings we's got roun' here. Dey calls 'em 
"blesses." Ain' dat queer? 

(Emmeline pronounces it " blessees.") 

Sally (working as she talks). Well, no, I wouldn't 
call it queer, as it happens to be French for 
** wounded." 

Emmeline. Dat so? Well, ain' de French got de 
queeres' names fer tings? Now dat young French- 
man dat dey shot his arm off is name " Henry Martin," 
an' he call hisse'f " Ongree Martang." Ain' dat a 
scream? Say he's name after er big Frenchman, too, 
an' dat everybody in Paree call it " Martang." 

Sally. You mean the young man whose arm was 
amputated, and who sings so much to the wounded? 

Emmeline. Yassam, he's de big tenor at de Met- 
ropolitan Opera House in New York. 

Sally (horrified). Oh, no! 

Emmeline. Yassam, I's a New York nigger, ma'- 
se'f, so I knows. I uster scrub in de Metropolitan 
Opera House, an' many's de time I done listen to dat 
man rehearsin' an' fightin' wif de conductor an' rarin' 
an' pitchin' at de leadin' lady, an' jes' nacherly raisin' 
Cain, but I never did look to be holdin' his han' some- 
wheres in France. No, sir. 

Sally. Holding his hand ? 

Emmeline. Yassam. When Dr. Garden went to 
cut off dat arm, Misto Martin he done say : " Fotch in 



FIRST AID 9 

Emmeline. I like for to have some woman roun' me 
what Is 'quainted wif, an' I's too sick to be perticular 
'bout color." (Wipes her eyes at the memory.) Yas- 
sam, I reckon he's as brave as dey make 'em. I jes* 
hope ma Rastus gwine 'stinguish hisse'f lak dat. 

(At the mention of Garden's name a slight constraint 
has come into Sally's manner.) 

Sally. Is Rastus your husband? 

Emmeline (down r., gathering up her pail, etc.). 
Yassam — dat is, I reckon he is, if he ain' foun' no 
Belgium nigger to turn his haid. Rastus is powerful 
temperamental. 

Sally. Is he with the army ? 

Emmeline. Yassam. He done 'listed de day de 
wall was declare. We been a-quarrelin' dat day 'bout 
his spendin' money. Rastus is a dreadful ambitious 
nigger to wear good clothes. So he got mad an' went 
an' 'listed and says to me : " Reckon now Uncle Sam's 
payin' for my clothes you'se gwine give me some 
peace." " Well," I says, '* I will, but de Germans 
won't." An', Ian' sakes, wasn' he ordered off jes' two 
weeks atter dat ! So I jes' packed up an' jined de fust 
hospital unit dat was comin' dis way, case I don' trust 
dat nigger no furder dan I has to, no, sir. How'd 
you come over, honey ? 

Sally (down l.). Oh, I've been over some time. 
I've been at the base hospital over yonder for two 
months, and yesterday they sent for me to come here 
and take Miss Spencer's place. She's going back to 
England on a furlough. 

(Tenor voice heard singing operatic music outside. 
Use phonograph zvith good record, but not too loud. 
Uncover gradually and stop abruptly as Martin 
enters. ) 

Emmeline. Dere Misto Martin now. Bet dat 
head nurse done sen' him atter me. Ain' she de par- 
ticulerest pusson you ever did see? She mus' make 
dis place seem like home to dem woundeds — 'tain' 



10 FIRST AID 

likely none of 'em been ordered roun' so mudi sence 
he seen his wife an' mother-in-law las'. 

{Enter, c, Henri Martin, in a tattered uniform, with 
an empty sleeve. He is impressed with the appear- 
ance of the new nurse, and salutes her most defer- 
entially. ) 

Martin. Pardon, Mademoiselle, but the ambulance 
it have arrive, and one of the stretcher men have been 
hurt. Dr. Garden says Emelie is to come an' help. 

Emmeline {preparing to go). Didn' I tell you? 
Fust Aid? Well, I guess I's him. 

{Exit promptly, c.) 

Sally {down l.). Are there many wounded? 
Martin {coming down c). De usual lot, Madem- 
oiselle, and I as useless as ever! 

{Glancing bitterly at his empty sleeve.) 

Sally. Oh, no, not useless ! 

Martin. At any rate, when I am old and de voice 
is gone, I shall not have to be vot you Americans call 
" ze supe." No one want a one arm chorus man, eh ? 

Sally {smiling). How do you always know we're 
Americans ? 

Martin. By de charming air of independence 
w'ich you radiate about you. 

Sally {pleased). Oh! 

Martin. Also, a small foot in a well fitting shoe is 
an indication to an observing male. 

Sally {trying to tuck her feet under her). Oh! 
After that I suppose I mustn't mind if you do say that 
we talk through our noses? 

Martin. They are adorable noses to talk through, 
Mademoiselle. 

Sally. I don't suppose that even a Boche shell can 
shoot away a Frenchman's politeness, can it? 

Martin. God forbid, Mademoiselle! 

Sally. And when the man's a tenor 



FIRST AID II 

Martin. It is quite impossible, Mademoiselle. 
{She laughs and goes on with her work, which just 
now is rearranging one of the medicine stands. He 
stands watching her admiringly. She attempts to lift 
the stand, and he jumps to her assistance.) Permit 
that I shall assist you. 

Sally (l. c). Thank you, Monsieur. There, I 
think the room looks rather nice, don't you ? 

Martin (l.). Ah, the American ladies understand 
so well how to make the place look like home ! Two 
beautiful American wives I have had. Mademoiselle, 
and lost 

Sally {sympathetically). Oh! 

Martin. Through vot your American lawyer call 
the " incompatibility of the temperament." 

(Sally crosses r., sits and takes up some knitting.) 

Sally. Oh ! 

Martin {coming c). Yes, Mademoiselle. They 
were beautiful devils of jealousy, both of them. No 
man can continue to live with a beautiful devil and 
still sing — is it not so? It is necessary that I sing, 
consequently we arrange it so. It is a wonderful 
country, America. 

Sally {dryly). So it seems. {Then relenting.) 
But, anyhow, I think it was splendid of you to leave 
everything and come over here to fight in a trench ! 

(Martin goes r. and gets a chair.) 

Martin {drawing chair near Sally, r.). But, no. 
Mademoiselle. You see, it is like this. I am a 
Frenchman of tiie people. Some time when I sing 
before the great crowd, or am entertain' by the rich 
ones of your country, I forget this. The big things 
of life are so easy to forget, Mademoiselle. But when 
this war come, and when I hear what my frien's have 
done, I say to inyself — " Henri Martin, vot is de mos' 
important thing about you, my boy? Is it the voice — 
the great voice — or is it the power to play the great 



12 FIRST AID 

role — or is it that you are rich ? " No ! I tell myself : 
" The mos' important thing about you, Henri, is that 
you are a Frenchman of the people — all the same as 
Papa Joffre! " Then I say: " Go where you belong, 
my child, without loss of time." I go, and, behold, 
my friends the Boche they shoot an arm off me, also 
without loss of time. They are a simple-minded peo- 
ple, these Boche, eh. Mademoiselle? 

(Martin may, if desired, light a cigarette with Sally's 
help.) 

Sally {touched). And the French are a wonderful 
people, Monsieur. I — I am very proud to be allowed 
to help them even a little. 

Martin {simply). One does what one may, 
Mademoiselle. Our friends have been kind. This 
English lady v/hose place you take 

Sally. Miss Spencer? 

Martin. Yes. It was not easy for her to give up 
her beautiful English home and come to this hole to 
care for " les blesses." 

Sally (softly). Perhaps there is some one she 
cares for over here, and she wants to help for his sake. 

Martin. Do you know, I think she came to for- 
get 

Sally (interested). To forget? 

Martin. Cest une tragedie. Ten years ago, when 
she was very young — oh, eighteen or so — she was what 
you call engage to a young English officer, a Captain 
Manners, who went out to India. And in India some- 
thing happened. 

Sally. He was killed? 

Martin. No, Mademoiselle, unfortunately. Some- 
thing went wrong. Some say " A mistake in judg- 
ment." Others say " He had been drinking." Who 
knows? But fifty men went to their death through 
him. 

Sally (horrified). Oh! 

Martin. After the court martial he disappeared. 
It is suppose' that he kill himself. 



FIRST AID 13 

Sally. How terrible ! 

Martin (rising). Who can say? But the EngUsh 
miss has never married. As an opera, it would please 
me very much, but in life — it is sad. 

Sally. It is dreadful. 

Martin {making dramatic gestures as he speaks). 
In the opera, I would play the role of the gallant 
Captain Manners, but I should return. In fact, I 
should insist upon returning, and snatching the Eng- 
lish miss away from the doctor, a baritone, probably, 
and we should all die together, comfortably. 

(Returns r. to Sally.) 

Sally (pricking up her ears). The doctor? 

Martin. The young American doctor. What you 
call him ? Orchard ? 

Sally (trying not to show her dismay, but failing). 
Not — not Dr. Garden? 

Martin. Ah, yes, that is it — Garden ! He is heels 
over head in love with her. Even the wounded have 
observed it. 

Sally (indignantly — jabbing her knitting needles 
into the wool). I should think the wounded had bet- 
ter mind their own affairs ! 

Martin. What the doctor says to the nurse is 
their affair. Mademoiselle. It is most interesting to 
every one. 

(He notices Sally's suppressed excitement.) 

Sally (under her breath). Cats! 

Martin (observing her closely). It is believed that 
she will marry him when the war is over. 

Sally. I don't believe she's forgotten that poor 
man in India — she couldn't ! 

Martin. Forgetting is — what you say in America 
— the best thing the ladies do. 

Sally (hotly). I've known Philip Garden since I 

was ten, and Well, let me tell you that when it 

comes to forgetting he — well— he was one of the most 



I^. FIRST AID 

accomplished flirts that ever sniffed the sainted air of 
Harvard College and Oh, they're coming in here. 

(Sally jumps up alertly, lays dozvn knitting, and goes 
■up R. Martin goes up c.) 

Emmeline (outside). Keerful, now, goin' roun* 
de corners! (Enter Emmeline and Dr. Garden, at 
c, carrying a stretcher with a sick man lying on it. 
Dr. Garden has the front end of the stretcher 
and walks backward. Martin assists in carrying 
stretcher.) My Ian', ain' stretchers de doggondest 
things? (They put the stretcher down, up l.) 

Garden (to Emmeline). Call Miss Spencer, 
please. 

(Exit Emmeline at l. Martin and Garden are 
busied with the sick man; Garden has not noticed 
Sally. Martin on knees by stretcher.) 

Sally (up ^., demurely). Is it a bad case, doctor? 

Garden (looking up, sees Sally; is utterly amazed: 
gasps). Why, Sally — Sally Page! (She looks at 
him, smiling in spite of her evident embarrassment; 
suddenly he crosses and takes her hands whole-heart- 
edly.) When did you come? 

Sally. Last night — base hospital — are you sur- 
prised? 

Garden. Surprised ! Why, Sally, I'm — I'm bowled 
over. 

Martin (with the air of one zvho bridges over an 
azvkward pause). The young lady has jus' tell me 
that she know the doctor in America. 

Garden (up c). Know me? Well, I should think 
so. Why, we fought our way through college to- 
gether, didn't we, Sally ? 

Sally (up r. c). We certainly fought, Phil. 

Martin (up l., still on his knees; enthusiastically) . 
And now to meet — here — thus — what a romance! 

Sally (coldly). Not at all! 

Garden (frowning). Don't be a fool, Martin! 
Lend me a hand with this chap. 



FIRST AID 15 

{He goes hack to stretcher. Assisted by Sally and 
Martin, Garden helps the sick man from the 
stretcher to the bed, up l.) 

Martin (at foot of bed, l.). Ah, the poor fellow! 
Is he in bad shape, doctor ? 

Garden (up c, busy with patient). Exhaustion 
and fever. (To Sally.) How long have you been 
over here, Sally ? 

Sally (up r. c). About four months. Two at 
the base hospital. (Looking at the bandage.) He's 
wounded ! 

Garden. Just a scratch. Thermometer, please. 
(Sally hands him thermometer, which he shakes 
down as he talks.) The lucky chap had the closest 
shave I've heard of yet. He was out with a scouting 
party — about fifty of them — cloudy night — everything 
apparently safe enough, till they lost their way. They 
could hear noises from the German trenches and knew 
they were in a bad place, but had no way of finding 
out where. This chap volunteered to reconnoitre 
alone. 

Sally (softly). Alone! 

(While Garden is speaking Margaret Spencer enters 
at L. She stands in the doorway and listens, and is 
not noticed, as the others are listening also. Gar- 
den does not see her, as he is talking to Sally.) 

Garden (putting thermometer in patient's mouth). 
He hadn't been gone more than ten minutes before the 
moon came out. The whole place was like an electric 
lighted boulevard. The scouting party found that 
they were hidden behind a small boulder, but didn't 
dare move for fear of drawing the enemy's fire. This 
chap was out there in the moonlight — like a tenor with 
the spotlight turned on him. (Martin makes dra- 
matic gesture.) The enemy saw him and fired. There 
wasn't a scrap of cover anyw^here except the place he'd 
come from, and it meant death or capture for his 
crowd if he drew the Bodies' attention to them, so he 



l6 FIRST AID 

ran — the opposite way — with the shells hitting the high 
places before and behind him and no place to go but 
on — ran till he was exhausted and fell. 

(Takes out thermometer, looks at it, hands it to Sally, 
who puts it in stand.) 

Martin {excited). Sacrebleu! {Goes down R.) 

Garden {busy over patient). By that time the 
Bodies, seeing him headed for our trenches, evidently 
concluded that it was no good wasting any more shells 
on one lone private, so they let up. When he got his 
breath he crawled the rest of the way. They fired 
on him just before he tumbled into our trenches, and 
got him in the arm, but not badly. Then he got chills 
and fever in the trenches, and they nearly finished him. 

Margaret {coming into the room). And the 
others ? 

Garden. Got off scot free. Moon obligingly went 
under a cloud later, and they made it back again. ( To 
Sally.) Take off his coat. 

{Motioning to patient.) 

Margaret {half aside). It must be a wonderful 
thing to save fifty men! 

Garden. Well, rather! He'll ^oX a D. S. O. for 
it, probably. 

(He is making the patient comfortable as he ansivers; 
takes his shoes off, as Sally takes off coat. ) 

Margaret {coming nearer). He is English? 

Garden. Another indomitable Tommy ! {He scrib- 
bles something on a pad and gives it to Martin.) Get 
this for me from the pharmacist, please. (Martin 
salutes and starts up c, taking paper from Garden.) 
And, by the way, don't come to blows with him. 
{Exit Martin at c. zvith mtich dignity.) The phar- 
macist, unfortunately, is also a musician, and used to 
play the drum at Covent Garden. Now, Sally, get us 
a hot water bottle; we don't want any more chills. 
(Sally tiuiis toward door, l.) Wait a bit; have you 



FIRST AID 17 

met Miss Spencer? {To Margaret.) This is Miss 
Page, who is to take your place. 

(Margaret smiles cordially, Sally with reserve.) 

Sally {up r. c). I am quite sure I can't do what 
you've done, but I'll try. 

Garden {up c). The Pages are rather a wonder- 
ful family, Miss Spencer, and when one of them says 
she'll try, you may consider the job done. 

Margaret {up l.). I am sure the wounded are to 
be congratulated. They are exchanging a tired out 
nurse for a fresh one, and freshness means so much 
in a place like this. 

Sally {coolly). Dr. Garden feels obliged to show 
some interest in me, you see, as a fellow American 

{Goes l.) 

Garden. Of course. Now, we won't undress this 
chap— Private Johnson, I believe his name is — because 
the base hospital ambulance will be here in about an 
hour. 

{Exit Sally, l.) 

Margaret. You think he's in for a long spell ? 

Garden. I'm afraid so. His wound is nothing, but 
he's all in from exposure and excitement. What he 
wants is rest and comfort. 

{He comes dozvn r. to chest, and lifts out a box from 
which he takes some pellets. Margaret goes up l. 
to the bed. The sick man is very quiet.) 

Margaret. Is he unconscious, do 3'ou think? 

Garden {measuring pellets). No, just played out. 
(Margaret stands by the bed. The man moves. Slie 
tries to make the pillozv more comfortable for him, 
lifting him a bit in so doing. He groans and falls 
back op, the bed. Margaret exclaims slightly, and 
Garden goes up t. to her.) Even that exertion is too 
much for him. The trip will be hard on him, but it's 
the only thing to do. He's luckier than the rest of the 



l8 FIRST ^ID 

poor chaps who came over this morning. They had 
a brush with Fritz last night. 

Margaret. Dr. Garden, I — I wonder — do you 
think that I ought to take this furlough? . Are you 
sure that you can spare me ? 

Garden {up l. c, taking her hands). I can't spare 
you. You know that, don't you? 

Margaret (drawing her hands away). I didn't 
mean 

Garden. But as far as the work is concerned, Miss 
Page can take your place without a bit of trouble. 

Margaret. She's a dear — one can see that, but has 
she had the experience? 

Garden. She's been two months in the base hos- 
pital yonder. If you want to beat that for experience, 
you'll have to go to — I beg your pardon — the infernal 
regions. But what's the matter? You need a rest, 
and I'm sending you home to goi it. If I thought 
you wouldn't come back 

Margaret. Oh, no, I couldn't help coming back! 

Garden. I don't know. When I think of how it 
must feel to be in a place where there is no shelling, 
no trench feet, no Boches and no blood — well, it would, 
take nerve to leave it — that's all. 

Margaret. You feel that way, too? About the 
horror of it all? {Comes down c.) 

Garden {following her, and standing at her l.). 
My dear girl, one doesn't like horrors just because 
one's a doctor. As for you — a woman — I wouldn't 
blame you for getting away from it. Only, if I 
thought you would 

Margaret. Yes ? 

Garden. I'd say something I hadn't meant to say — 
just yet. 

Margaret. Please don't. 

Garden {whimsically). Why not? He's asleep, 
poor chap, and Sally seems to be manufacturing the 
hot water bottle. 

Margaret {agitated). Because I 

Garden. Please, Margaret. I've been wanting to 
say it for so long. 



FIRST AID 19 

Margaret. And you've known me just exactly two 
months ! It puzzles me. 

(Turns to chest r., puts back box, rearranges contents 
of chest as she talks.) 

Garden. That's good. Shows you're interested. 
Margaret (over her shoulder). Of course I'm in- 
terested. I like you too well not to be. 
Garden (seriously) . Do you mean that, Margaret ? 

(Goes to her, r.) 

Margaret. Oh, yes, very much too well. If I 
could just be sure — but people's feelings change so as 
they grow older, don't they? I mean, you can't com- 
pare the way you used to feel about a person, to — to 
the way you feel now about another, can you? Oh, 
you can't see, of course ! 

Garden. Yes, I can, Margaret. I was engaged — 
at college — (he stops suddenly) but that isn't the point ! 
The point is that you were just a girl when that hor- 
rible thing happened. You couldn't love as you can 
now. 

Margaret (doubtfully). Perhaps not, but I could 
suffer, horribly! 

Garden. It was your pride that suffered; your 
pride in the man you thought you loved. 

Margaret. I sometimes think it's wrong to live 
alone all one's life because one man 

(She stops and turns away, unable to continue.) 

Garden. Exactly. And I could make you happy — 
I know I could ! Our work would lie along the same 
lines 

Margaret. No. Once this war is over, I never 
want to be near a hospital again. Oh, I know it sounds 
hard, but IVe seen suffering enough to make me sad 
for the rest of my life. 

Garden. I don't mean that, Margaret ; I mean that 
by your encouragement and your nearness you can 
help me in my work. 



20 FIRST AID 

Margaret (siniling). Yes. Men usually do mean 
that when they talk about women's work, don't they? 

Garden. My dear, you shall do whatever you like. 
You shall drive a motor 'bus or preside over a police 
court if you wish — just say you'll marry me ! 

Margaret. Oh — marry. I don't know about that. 
I must go home hrst. I must think about it — but per- 
haps (turns to him) when I come back 

Garden (seizing her hands). Margaret! 

{Enter Sally, l., with hot water bottle. She looks at 
them, startled, then goes up l., gets towel, wraps 
water bottle in it, and comes down c. a few steps.) 

Sally {abruptly). Here's the hot water bottle. 
Garden {gruffly). Thank you. 

{He goes up c. to Sally, takes bottle, goes up l., and 
puts it under bedcovers.) 

Margaret {recovering herself quickly). I'm leav- 
ing in half an hour, Aliss Page; if there's anything 
you'd like to ask me {Goes to Sally, c.) 

Sally {coldly). Thank you. I'll go to the head 
nurse if I get into trouble. 

Garden {to Margaret). I'm going to drive you 
over to the train. In half an hour, you say? 

Margaret. Yes. I've only to change my things. 
Good-bye, Miss Page, and good luck! 

{She takes Sally's hand cordially.) 

Sally {unbending a little, in spite of herself). 
Thank you. I wish you a safe crossing. 

{Comes dozvn r. Exit Margaret, c.) 

Garden {up l., by bed, enthusiastically) . Isn't she 
charming, Sally? Such a deep and beautiful nature 
for so young a woman ! 

Sally {crossly). Oh, well, twenty-eight isn't so 
horribly young, you knov-/ ! 

Garden {looking up from the bedside in surprise). 
What? 



FIRST AID 21 

Sally (hurriedly). I mean, you ought to be a little 
deep at twenty-eight. (Jumping to a safer subject.) 
What are you going to do with Private Johnson ? 

(Goes up R.) 

Garden. Send him to the base hospital when the 
ambulance comes; it should be here within the hour. 
I'm going to leave him in your charge. 

Sally (coldly). Oh, yes, you said you were going 
to the train with Miss Spencer. 

Garden (going to her). Sally, I haven't had a 
chance to tell you how good it seems to have you here, 
or how much I admire your pluck in coming. 

SA1.LY (embarrassed). Nonsense. How about you? 
Didn't it take pluck for you to come? 

Garden. No. It's part of being a doctor — going 
where you're needed. It's in the job. With a woman, 
it's different. 

Sally (slowly). Well, perhaps it was in my job, 
too. 

Garden. But what started you ? When I left home 
three years ago, I left you the gayest butterfly that ever 
fluttered out of a limousine; and the next thing I 
heard was that you were studying in a hospital. 

Sally. Oh, well, you can't butterfly forever. Your 
wings get tired. (Tne patient m.utters feverishly. 
Sally goes to him.) Yes? What is it? Oh, the 
pillow isn't right? There, that better? 

David (weakly). When am I — going? 

Garden (up r.). What did he say? 

Sally (turning to Garden). He wishes to know 
when he's going to the base. (To David.) In about 
an hour. When the ambulance comes. 

Garden. Meanwhile, can't you sleep a bit, old 
fellow ? 

David. In an hour? That's good. 

(He quiets down.) 

Garden (preparing to go, takes an instrument from 
table up c. and carries it dozvn to chest r.). It's going 



22 FIRST AID 

to be bully to have you here right along. You always 
were a good sport, Sally. 

Sally (melting). Yes? (Comes down r.) 

Garden (busy at chest). It's the next thing to 
having mother and the girls here. 

Sally (abruptly). Oh! 

Garden. You're " home folks," Sally. When 
you've been over here a while you'll know what that 
means. (She does not anszver, and he continues.) 
It means the people you've known all your life — the 
people 3^ou've worked and played with — the people 
you've loved and quarreled with— the people who 
haven't any illusions about you, but rather like you 
the way you are. 

Sally (shaking off her seriousness and laughing). 
Phil, don't they always " like you the way you are " ? 
Haven't they begun spoiling you yet — over here? 

Garden (turning to her, stiffly). Not at all. Why 
should they? 

Sally (going c, dimpling). Only that it must 
seem rather odd to you not to be spoiled. 

Garden (r. c). I never was spoiled, and you know 
it. That ridiculous quarrel that we had 

Sally (c). Oh, you admit, now, that it was 
ridiculous? 

Garden (loftily). Everything a man does at col- 
lege is more or less ridiculous. 

Sally (wincing). Oh! 

Garden. Yes. Even to becoming engaged to a 
woman who turns out to be a hard-hearted little flirt. 

Sally (indignantly). We were not engaged. 

Garden. I thought we were. 

Sally (going l., angrily). I refused to be engaged 
to you because I knew at least six girls that you'd been 
in love with, and I — I 

Garden (following her). Sally, Sally, you know 
that's not fair. Besides, you were — different. But 
that's over, and there's no reason why we shouldn't be 
friends now, is there? 

Sally. No, there isn't. It's rather difficult not to 
be friends with you, Phil, even if you are a 



FIRST AID 23 

Garden. A what? 

Sally {laughing). A philandering goose! 

Garden. Sally ! 

Sally {frankly). I hated coming here because I 
knew that you were here ; but if you're going to be nice 
and sensible, and realize that I never cared for you in 
the ver}^ least {She eyes him sharply.) 

Garden {a hit disappointed). Oh, no, of course 
not! 

Sally. I don't know that I shall mind it so much. 
{Becoming more genuine in her manner.) And I do 
think you are doing wonders here. I knew you were 
a good doctor, Phil, but — well, since I've seen some of 
your patients here, I've been mighty proud of you. 

Garden. It was rather awful at first, but there 
wasn't time to be scared, and it's the place to bring 
out what a man knows. 

Sally. And you're young — only twenty-eight. 

Garden. Don't give me away. They think me 
quite dignified over here. 

Sally. Even Miss Spencer? 

Garden. Even Miss Spencer. Sally, I think — I 
hope — that maybe she — Margaret 

SaLly. I thought so. 

Garden {surprised). You thought so? 

Sally. I mean, I thought I'd rudely thrown my hot 
water bag into the middle of a sentimental episode. 
No — Phil, I don't mean that. I congratulate you— 
awfully. She's lovely. She's 

David. The ambulance — when did you say — > — 

Sally {running up l. to bed). Oh, surely in an 
hour. {Soothingly.) Won't you try to rest just a 
little? 

(Garden follows up c.) 

Garden. Martin must have fallen foul of the 
pharmacist. Two musicians in one hospital is an over- 
dose. I'll go after him. Twenty drops in a glass of 
water as soon as it comes, Sally. 

{Exit hurriedly, c.) 



24 FIRST AID 

Sally. Yes. {She sits by the bed.) 
David. You won't go away ? 
Sally. No, indeed. 

(She goes down R., gets knitting, goes back to bed, 
sits, and goes to work. Her manner changes. It 
is evident she is unhappy.) 

David. Where did the other one go? 

Sally. Miss Spencer? Why, she goes back to 
England to-day. Where you'll be going one of these 
days, you know. 

David. No, I think not. No! 

Sally. Well, anyhow, I'd be awfully pleased if 
you'd try to grab a nap before the ambulance comes. 
I hate to send a patient away all fussed and nervous. 

David. Yes, I'll try— I'll try 

(He tosses about two or three times and finally lies 
still. Sally stares into vacancy for a moment, as 
though thinking of something unpleasant, then knits 
furiously. Enter Martin, c, carrying bottle of 
medicine. ) 

Martin. I would like to 'ave dat drum man under 
me at rehearsal for jus' one hour ! Jus' one leetle 

Sally (going to him and taking the bottle from 
him). Hush, he is trying to rest. (She measures the 
medicine, dropping it into a glass of water. Martin 
comes dozvn l.) Eighteen, nineteen, twenty! (She 
goes to the bedside, gives it to the sick man, raising his 
head gently.) That will help, I'm sure. 

Martin (dozvn l.). Ah, he has the luck! They 
took my arm off, and all I had was Emmeline to hoi* 
my hand ! Ah, ministering angel ! 

Sally (up c). I guess you've had all the minister- 
ing angels you've needed in your career, Monsieur 
Martin. 

Martin. Ah, well, I do not complain. One mus' 
suffer occasionally. 

Sally (grimly). One does, at any rate. 

(She comes down r. and sits knitting.) 



FIRST AID 25 

Martin (crossing r. to her). It is good for one's 
career. I feel that when I next play the role of a 
soldier I shall do so with more authority if with less 
anatomy. 

Sally {shivering). Oh! 

Martin. Vv^hy not, Mademoiselle? Stop singing 
because a part of me, a most unnecessary part of me, 
is gone ? I do not sing with my arms like some, thank 
heaven ! 

Sally {reflectively). That is so. It is like being 
unhappily in love. One can go on. 

Martin {eyeing her keenly). One must go on, 
Mademoiselle. 

Sally {wistfully). And after all, one's first love 
is — I mean 

Martin. Like one's left arm; delightful, but not 
altogether indispensable. 

Sally {meditatively). And most people don't 
marry their first loves, do they. Monsieur Martin ? 

Martin. The wise ones do not, Mademoiselle. 
Now if I 

(David moves restlessly and speaks disconnectedly, as 
though slightly delirious. They pause and listen.) 

David. Fifty — saved — all of them ! If she could 
know 

Martin. He is delirious. 

Sally. There, I'm here. {She goes up l. to bed.) 
I do know. It's all over. 

David. No, she wouldn't — she couldn't 

Martin {down r.). The inevitable "she." 

{Shakes his head philosophically.) 
Sally. Please 



David. After ten years, David Manners, ten years ? 

But the other fifty 

Martin (startled). Eh, what! (He goes up r. c.) 
Sally. Hush ! 

(They look at each other in astonishment.) 



26 FIRST AID 

David (angrily). Not Captain Manners, I tell 
you! Private — Private Johnson! The Colonel said 
at the court martial — but that was ten years ago. 
Private Johnson, of the — of the — I can't remember 
the regiment — the Colonel knows — yes, sir, FU go — 
rU do it — I'm no duffer — Fve been in India, I tell 
you 

Sally (frightened). Hush! 

David. Margaret, why do you say " hush " ? Don't 
you want to hear about the fifty that — tell me — 
what's the Kaiser doing in India? (Points to 
Martin.) Came all the way to India to court-martial 
David Manners- (He sinks down exhausted.) 

Martin (bringing Sal^ly down c.) . Mademoiselle, 
it is he ! Captain Manners ! 

Sally (wildly). How can we know? The man's 
delirious. 

Martin. He will sleep now, and when he awakes, 
his mind will be clearer. You must ask him. 

Sally (recoiling). I? Oh, no, I can't! Don't 
ask me to. 

Martin. But what joy for the English miss! 
Think of it, mon amie! Unless 

Sally. Yes, that's just it — unless! She's buried 
him ; buried him with pain and suffering, and built her 
new happiness on his grave, and now you're going to 
undo it all ! 

Martin. But if she loved him 

Sally. You said yourself that wise people didn't 
marry their first loves ! Why, she didn't even recog- 
nize him ! 

Martin. With all that beard his mother wouldn't 
have recognize' him, Mademoiselle. 

Sally (helplessly). I can't spoil her life and — 
and Phil's — by telling her. Some one else might. 
Some one who doesn't care — but not I — not I 

(Enter Emmeline, c.) 

Emmeltne. De haid nurse wan' Miss Page, an* 
she wan' her right sma't. 



FIRST AID 27 

Sally. Oh, I {She hesitates.) 

Emmeline. Bettah hustle, honey, she got blood in 
her eye! {She vanishes c.) 

Sally {to Martin, meaningly). Stay with him, 
but don't wake him ! 

Martin {after a moment's hesitatio7i) . I promise, 
Mademoiselle. {Exit Sally, c. Martin takes his 
watch out, frowns, looks at the patient, shrugs his 
shoulder and crosses r. Hums a bar or two from 
" Aida" or " Faiist.") It is not war as we see it in 
opera, decidedly. Some one who does not care — bah ! 

{He lights a cigarette, seats himself dozvn r. and hums 
softly. David stirs, tosses, sits up and rubs his 
eyes. ) 

David. What — oh, it's the hospital! 

Martin {hypocritically). Pardon, Monsieur. I 
have waked you! {Goes up l. to bed.) 

David. It's real, then? I haven't been dreaming? 

Martin. What is real, Monsieur? {Sits by bed.) 

David. Oh, the place and the nurse — and you, I 
suppose. 

Martin. I am mos' real. Monsieur. Touch my 
arm — oh, pardon, not that one — this one I assure you 
is mos' real. 

David {grasping the significance of the empty 
sleeve). Lately? {Touches sleeve.) 

Martin. At Cambrai. 

David. I was there. It was hell. 

Martin {cheerfidly). Parfaitement. It was. 

David. But the nurse — tell me — who is she? 

Martin. A Mees Page from New York. 

David. No — no — the other! 

Martin {slowly). Ah, yes, the English mees! 
She is Margaret Spencer. 

David {half aside). Then it was she. I wasn't 
dreaming. 

Martin. I think Monsieur was a little — what you 
call " out of the head " for a few moments. 

David {anxiously). What did I say? 



28 FIRST AID 

Martin. Oh, nothing! Jus' the rambUng one 
makes when the head is not clear. 

David {speaking carefully and with evident effort). 
Is there — is there a doctor here named " Phil "? 

Martin. To be sure. Dr. Garden. 

David {wildly). Then it's all real! I must get 
away from here ! 

Martin {soothingly). They will take Monsieur to 
the base hospital this afternoon. 

David, This afternoon won't do. I must go now. 

Martin. But it is impossible. Monsieur has been 
ill — quite ill. After his heroic feat of leading the 
Boches away from his countrymen 

David {angrily). Heroic? You wouldn't have had 
me lead 'em toward them, would you ? Heroic tommy 
rot! 

Martin. Ah, but it takes the courage and the clear 
head to think quickly under fire ! 

David {bitterly). The clear head — yes. I must 
get away, I tell you ! 

Martin. Patience, mon ami. One has good care 
here, though of course we shall miss the English nurse. 

David {eagerly). She is going away? 

Martin {blandly). She has gone. 

David. Gone ? 

Martin. Back to England. You will not see the 
English mees again. {Rises.) 

David. That was it! She said — he was to drive 
her 

Martin. Very likely. The Americans are very 
gallant. When one has seen their women one does 
not wonder. I, though unworthy, have married two 
of them. 

David. What are you, anyway, a Turk? 

Martin. No, Monsieur, but the greatest living 
tenor, at your service. Henri Martin. {Bozvs.) 

David. I say, that's jolly queer, isn't it? I've paid 
a guinea many's the time to hear you sing " Celeste 
Aida," and now 

Martin. Monsieur may hear me any night for 
nothing. I sing each evening to the wounded. A one 



FIRST AID 29 

arm* man need not be altogether useless, it seems. An 
artist sometimes wonders, in his dark moments, 
whether he is of any use in the worl'. 

David. I know. None of us need wonder now. 
The war's done that much for us. 

Martin. I think Monsieur would feel the better 
for a shave and a cigarette. 

David {eagerly). Better! 

Martin {craftily). Hush! It can be manage' 
easily while the nurse is away. 

{He quickly gathers shaving materials together from 
stand up l.) 

David. You are sure the English one has gone? 

Martin. Quite. It is drole. When I had two 
arms, I could not shave myself, but needed a valet. 
Now, with one arm I valet others. One lives and 
learns. 

{He begins to shave the sick man, humming cheer- 
fully.) 

David. Easy there, old chap; it isn't much of a 
face, but I'm rather attached to it, you know. 

Martin. Parfaitement. One is beginning to know 
what the face looks like without the underbrush, eh? 
Monsieur is becoming recognizable. 

David {alarmed). Recognizable! 

Martin. Quite so. Quiet, please; In the art of 
the barber I am yet an amateur. I sometimes blunder. 

{Pause.) 

David. Oh, I say, leave the mustache, please. 

Martin. A thousand pardons, I cannot! Half of 
him is gone. Ah, Monsieur is younger than I sup- 
posed! {Finishes.) 

David. Thanks. It does feel rather decent to be 
clean again. You mxentioned a cigarette? 

Martin. They are in my room. I have some that 
were sent from England. Monsieur will prefer them. 



30 



FIRST AID 



4 



Attendez! {Hands the sick man a mirror.) In the 
meantime, Monsieur may study himself. 

{Exit Martin, c, humming gayly as he goes. Dimin- 
ishing effect with phonograph, if desired.) 

David (surveying himself in the mirror). It's the 
face of the man who went out to India and made a 
fool of himself. (Pause.) Margaret would know me 
now if she saw me. (Puts dozmi the mirror; sinks 
hack on pillow.) Gad, I'm weak! How fever takes 
it out of a chap ! (Sitting up again, and speaking ex- 
citedly.) Suppose that fellow was wrong, and she 
hadn't gone? If she came back! She looked at me 
for a moment as though she were reminded of some- 
thing. That wouldn't do. She's got her chance now — ■ 
I'll not get in the Vv^ay again! (Slowly, he drags him- 
self lip until he is sitting on the edge of the bed. He 
is still in the bedraggled uniform, as only the coat and 
shoes have been removed. He breathes with difficidty.) 
I could walk if I had to. (Stands.) I could man- 
age (Sinks back on bed with a groan.) But of 

course she's gone. Why should the fellow lie to me? 
He knows nothing. Gad, how weak I am ! 

(Margaret's voice is heard off c. — not too near, as 
though she were a little distance away.) 

Margaret. Why, yes, I will, of course, but Dr. 
Garden left him in her care. 

Martin's Voice (off c). Parfaitement. But she 
has left him alone. Mademoiselle. 

David (wildly). That's Margaret speaking. She 
hasn't gone! I must get out of this. (Gets to his 
feet, with great difficidty gets as far as the chair, holds 
desperately to it.) I might be a baby for all the 
strength I've got ! (Starts to go alone.) That door's 

a mile away, but I'll make it (Goes down, but 

manages to crazvl to door up c.) I've got to make it! 
(Enter Margaret, c.) Oh, the deuce! 

Margaret (running to him). Oh, how dreadful! 
What has happened? 



FIRST AID 31 

David (trying to keep her from seeing his face). 
Nothing— nothing, whatever! Please go away! 

{She forces him to get up and helps him to the bed. 
Then she sees his face.) 

Margaret. David — David ! 

David. Margaret, you mustn't— please — oh, Mar- 
garet ! 

Margaret {sobbing on his shoulder). David! 

David {giving up). Margaret, how I've hungered 
for you — these ten years ! 

Margaret {zvildly). But I don't understand— 
they said you were Private Johnson 

David. I didn't want you to know me, IMargaret ! 
Pm going away from here. Pd have gone already if 
I hadn't given out 

Margaret. Gone! Without my knowing? And 
I — 

David. Yes. You've mended your life. Pll not 
break it again. I tell you — — 

Margaret. David, how could you so nearly let me 
lose you again ? How could you ? 

David {severely). Listen to me, Margaret. David 
Manners is dead. He died ten years ago. He was 
an undisciplined young cub who let liquor get the best 
of him when he was in a position of trust, and he paid 
for it — he and fifty others. 

Margaret. Then it— it was true? 

David. That much of it was. Pll do him this 
much justice, though; Pve never been sure that I 
wouldn't have done the same thing sober. It was one 
of those hare-brained charges that are all right when 
they turn out all right, and all wrong when they don't. 
But the worst part of it was that I couldn't tell! 
Perhaps in my right mind I wouldn't have taken the 
chance. I'll never know. They broke me— and right 
enough it was. 

Margaret. And I 

David. Do you think Pd let you tie yourself to a 
disgraced man? I wrote you the truth, and then 
disappeared. 



32 



FIRST AID 



Margaret. But I might have tried to find you — 
and I didn't. I was a coward, David. I was frightened 
and I let you go. 

David. It's what you must do again — let me go. 

Margaret. Never ! I've learned things, David, in 
ten years. I — I'm not a coward any more. 

David {excitedly). I tell you, David Manners is 
dead ! Don't think that because I've done one decent 
thing I'm going to let him corne back to life again. 
Private Johnson saved those men the other night. 
He's going back now to finish his job. 

{Tries to rise. Margaret gently pushes him back on 
the bed zvhere he lies, half sitting.) 

Margaret. David — never — never while I live ! 

David. I can't trust the other one. I haven't 
known him for ten years. How do I know that he 
won't go back 

Margaret. But I know ! I'll answ^er for him. 

(Kneels by the bed.) 

David. I won't let you. Listen to me, dear; I 
heard you talking to the American doctor who brought 
me in. I understand you — as he does — better than 
you understand yourself. 

Margaret. No^ — no 

David. He's a good chap — a fine chap. There are 
i-o better fellows on earth than these Americans that 
are coming over. You'll marry him, and leave the old 
memories behind forever. 

Margaret. David, I shan't marry any one just to 
please you. 

David. To please me ! 

Margaret. I know I was a miserable little beast 

not to stand by you (He tries to stop her.) But 

I'm going to do it now. I'm going to marry the man 
I love — I don't care if he is Private Johnson ! 

David (feebly). Margaret! 

Margaret (happily). It's not a pretty name. 
Why did you choose it ? 



FIRST AID 



33 



David. It didn't seem to matter at the time. I 
wasn't thinking of asking any one to share it with me. 
I had to be hack with the array when the trouble came, 
so I just enhsted. 

Margaret {biirymg her face in his shoulder). 
David, if j^ou hadn't 

David. If I'd known that the regiment was to be 
under Colonel Armstrong I'd never have dared try it. 
I've messed with the old boj^ a thousand times in tlie 
old days, and I've been deathly afraid he'd recognize 
me. 

Margaret. No one could recognize yon, David, 
with that vile beard — not even L 

David. Margaret, you're sure that you won't re- 
gret ? I'll never be anything but Private Johnson, you 
know. 

Margaret. Doesn't a woman know after ten years ? 

David. Margaret I 

(Sally enters, stands in the doorway, c.) 

Sally. Oh I Oh 1 (She steps forward, r. c, stops, 
half frightened, half angry.) Then you 

Margaret (rising and speaking with dignity). 
Come in, Miss Page. Your patient is an old friend 
of mine. I didn't recognize him till I saw him clean 
shaven. 

Sally (slmrply). Who shaved him? 

David. A young man who says he is the greatest 
living tenor. 

Sally. The vampire! I shall never trust a 
Frenchman again — never ! 

Margaret (gently). And, after all, Miss Sally, I 
think you are the one to be scolded. I found your 
patient alone and trying to walk. 

Sally (conscience stricken). Oh! How dreadful! 
I haven't been gone but a few minutes, and he prom- 
ised Yon see, the head nurse sent for me, and 

while I was there the English officer drove up in his 
motor, and there Avas such an excitement j 

David. What English officer? 



34 



FIRST AID 



Sally. I don't know. Somebody dreadfully im- 
portant. He had everybody by the ears. 

Margaret. What did he want ? 

Sally. I don't know, but he wanted it pretty badly. 
I thought he was going to have a fit Then Monsieur 
Martin came in 

Margaret. Ah^ yes. 

Sally. They went at each other like two dread- 
fully excited tomcats, and I suddenly remembered 

that my patient was alone, so I ran. I thought 

{She stops, looks at Margaret, then continues.) I 
thought Dr, Garden was going to drive you to the 
train ? 

Margaret. I am not going to England. I am 
going to see this patient safely to the base hospital. 

Sally (a little taken back). Oh! It — it's very 
good of yoUj I'm sure. Then you won't need me any 
longer. 

{She starts up stage. Enter Garden, excitedly, c, 
followed by Martin.) 

Garden. Sally, where's (He sees the others, 

mid goes to- Margaret.) Margaret! You know*? 

Margaret {up l. c, with sympathy). Yes, Phil, 
I knov/. {Turning to David.) At last. 

Garden {up-c, taking Margaret's hand and look- 
ing into her face as though hoping to read something 
there which he does not see). Margaret, I — Vm glad. 
(To David.) I congratulate you, sir. 

David (up l., simply). Thank you, doctor. 

Sally (up r. c, aside). Good old America! 

Martin (up r., to her), Parfaitement, Mademoi- 
selle. Good old America. Hah ! 

(Comes down l., evidently pleased zvith himself.) 

Margaret. But how did you know? 

Garden (in some irritation) . Know? How is any 
one to help knowing — with the British Army bellowing 
it all over the place? (Comes down r.) 

David. What \ 



FIRST AID 35 

Garden. Old Armstrong's been exploding fire- 
works in the office for half an hour trying to make 
some one understand that the young firebrand who's 
coming in for the D. S. O. or the V. C. or whatever it 
is you Tommies call it isn't Private Johnson, but Cap- 
tain David Manners of the British Army, 

David. The deuce! 

Martin {with eloquent gestures), Parfaitement. 
The Colonel say he have notice something famihar 
about the young man, but he have not suspect until 
they find among his things the miniature of a lady that 
the Colonel have the pleasure of knowing. (Bows.) 

Margaret. My picture ! 

A'Iartin. So. And now the Colonel come to con- 
gratulate the young man and to welcome him back to 
the service. [Grand gesture.) 

Margaret. I shall have my way after all, for even 
you, David, cannot hide what everybody knows. 

(She throws her arms around David. Garden, 
down R., turns away. Sally comes down r. and 
puts hand on his shoulder.) 

Sally. Remember, Phil, there's a lot of hard work 
for you and me to do, and there's no First Aid like 
work. 

Garden (turning to her, bravely). Real work this 
time, Sally, not college fun. 

(Sally nods, and he takes her hand in a comradely 
manner. ) 

Margaret (aside, and as though something were 
dawning on her). College! Oh! I see! 

(She turns hack to David. Enter Em^ieline, c, ex- 
citedly waving a telegram.) 

Emmeline. Jes' listen, you white folks, how ma 
Rastus done 'stinguish hisse'f. I's so proud of dat 
nigger, 'pears lak I'll bust. (Reads.) "Done been 
under fire and spoiled my best uniform. Please send 



^6 FIRST AID 

twenty-five dollars right smart, Rastus." What you 
think of dat ? 

Martin. It is grand. And will Monsieur Rastus 
get the money? 

Emmeline (coming down L. to Martin). Man, 
dat nigger gwine have his money if I has to take it to 
him mahself ! 

Sally {laughing). More First Aid. 

Garden {smiling, then growing serious). Sally, I 
guess I need a little treatment myself. Will you stand 
by me, old girl ? 

Sally. Yes, Phil. 

Margaret David 
Sally Emmeline 

Garden Martin 



CURTAIN 



Unusually Good Entertaiomeots 

Read One or More of These Before Deciding on 
Your Next Prograira 

GRADUATION DAY AT WOOD HILL SCHOOL. 

An Entertainment in Two Acts, by Ward Macauley. For six 
males and four females, with several minor parts. Time of 
playing, two hours. Modern costumes. Simple interior scenes; 
^lay be presented in a hail without scenery. The unusual coui- 
lation of a real "entertainment," including music, recitations, 
etc., with an interesting love story. The graduation exercises^ 
include short speeches, recitations, songs, funny interruptions,' 
and a comical speech by a country school trustee. Price, 15 
cents. 

EXAMINATION DAY AT WOOD HILL SCHOOL, 

An Entertainment in One Act, by Ward Macauley. Eight maU 
and six female characters, with minor parts. Plays one hour. 
Scene, an easy interior, or may be given withotit scenery. Cos- 
tumes, modern. Miss Marks, the teacher, refuses to marry a 
trustee, who threatens to discharge her. The examination in- 
cludes recitations and songs, and brings out many funny answers 
to questions. At the close Robert Coleman, an old lover, claims 
the teacher. Very easy and very effective. Price, 15 cents. 

BACK TO THE COUNTR> STORE. A Rural Enter- 
tainment in Three Acts, by Ward Macauley. For four male 
and five female cJiaracters, with some supers. Time, two hours. 
Two scenes, both easy interiors. Can be played effectively with- 
out scenery. Costumes, modern. All the principal parts are 
sure hits. Quigley Higginbotham, known as "Quig," a cierk in 
a country store, aspires to be a great author or singer and 
decides to try his fortunes in New York. The last scene is in 
Quig's home. He returns a failure but is offered a partnership 
in the country store. He pops the question in the midst of a 
surprise party given in his honor. Easy to do and very funny. 
Price, 15 cents. 

THE DISTRICT CONVENTION. A Farcical Sketch 
in One Act, by Frank Dumont, For eleven males and one 
female, or twelve males. Any number of other parts or super- 
numeraries may be added. Plays forty-five minutes. No special 
[scenery is required, and the costumes and properties are all 
'easy. The play shows an uproarious political nominating con- 
vention. The climax comes when a woman's rights cham- 
pion, captures the convention. There is a great chance to bur- 
lesque modern politics and to work in local gags. Every 
part will make a hit. Price, 15 cents, 

SI SLOCUM'S COUNTRY STORE. An Entertainment 
in One Act, by Frank Dumont. Eleven male and five female 
characters with supernumeraries. Several parts may be doubled. 
Plays one hour. Interior scene, or may be played without set 
scenery. Costumes, modern. The rehearsal for an entertain- 
ment in the village church gives plenty of opportunity for 
specialty work. A very jolly entertainment of the sort adapted 
to almost any place or occasion. Price, 15 cents. 

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 



Unusually Good Entertainments 

Read One or More of These Before Deciding on 
Your Next Program 

A SURPRISE PARTY AT BBINKLEY'S. An En- 
tertainment in One Scene, by Ward Macauley. Seven male and 
seven female characters. Interior scene, or may be given with- 
out scenery. Costumes, modern. Time, one hour. By the 
author of the popular successes, "Graduation Day at Wood Hill 
' School," "Back to the Country Store," etc. The villagers have 
planned a birthday surprise party for Mary Brinkley, recently 
graduated from college. They all join in jolly games, songs, 
conundrums, etc., and Mary becomes engaged, which surprises 
the surprisers. The entertainment is a sure success. Price, IS cents, 

JONES VS. JINKS. A Mock Trial in One Act, by 
Edward Mumford. Fifteen male and six female characters, with 
supernumeraries if desired. May be played all male. Many of the 
parts (members of the jury, etc.) are small. Scene, a simple 
interior ; may be played without scenery. Costumes, modern. 
Time of playing, one hour. This mock trial has many novel 
features, unusual characters and quick action. Nearly every 
character has a funny entrance and laughable lines. There are 
many rich parts, and fast fun throughout. Pri'^e, 15 cents. 

THE SIGHT-SEEING CAR. A Comedj Sketch in One 
Act, by Ernest M. Gould. For seven males, tA'o females, or 
may be all male. Parts may be doubled, with quick changes, so 
that four persons may play the sketch. Time, forty-five minutes. 
Simple street scene. Costumes, modern. The superintendent 
of a sight-seeing automobile engages two men to run the 
machine. A Jew, a farmer, a fat lady and other humorous 
characters give them all kinds of trouble. This is a regular gat- 
ling-gun stream of rollicking repartee. Price, 15 cents. 

THE CASE or SMYTHE VS. SMITH. An Original 

Mock Trial in One Act, by Frank Dumont. Eighteen males 
and two females, or may be all male. Plays about one hour. 
Scene, a county courtroom ; requires no scenery ; may be played 
in an ordinary hall. Costumes, modern. This entertainment is 
nearly perfect of its kind, and a sure success. It can be easily 
produced in any place or on any occasion, and provides almost 
any number of good parts. Price, 15 cents. 

THE OLD MAIDS' ASSOCIATION. A Farcical Enter- 
tainment in One Act, by Louise Latham Wilson. For thirteen 
females and one male. The male part may be played by a 
female, and the number of characters increased to twenty or 
more. Time, forty minutes. The play requires neither scenery 
nor properties, and very little in the way of costumes. Can 
easily be prepared in one or two rehearsals. Price, 25 cents. 

BARGAIN DAY AT BLOOMSTEIN'S. A Farcical 
Entertainment in One Act, by Edward Mumford. For five males 
and ten females, with supers. Interior scene. Costumes, mod- 
ern. Time, thirty minutes. The characters and the situations 
which arise from their endeavors to buy and sell make rapid-fire 
fun from start to finish. Price, 15 cents. 

THK PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 



Successful Plays for All Girls 

In Selecting Your Next Play Do Not Overlook This List 

YOUNG BOCTOE, DEVINE. A Farce in Two Acts, 
by Mrs. E. J. H. Goodfellow. One of the most popular 
plays for girls. For nine female characters. Time in 
playing, thirty minutes. Scenery, ordinary interior. Mod- 
ern costumes. Girls in a boarding-school, learning that a 
young doctor is coming to vaccinate all the pupils, eagerly con- 
sult each other as to the manner of fascinating the physician. 
When the doctor appears upon the scene the pupils discover that 
the physician is a female practitioner. Price, 15 cents. 

SISTER MASONS. A Burlesque in One Act, by Frank 
DuMOXT. For eleven females. Time, thirty minutes. Costumes, 
fantastic gowns, or dominoes. Scene, interior. A grand expose 
of Masonry. Some women profess to learn the secrets of a 
Masonic lodge by hearing their husbands talk in their sleep, 
and they institute a similar organization. Price, 15 cents. 

A COMMANDING POSITION. A Farcical Enter- 
tainment, by Amelia Sanford. For seven female char- 
acters and ten or more other ladies and children. Time, one 
hour. Costumes, modern. Scenes, easy interiors and one street 
scene. Marian Young gets tired living with her aunt. Miss 
Skinflint. She decides to "attain a commanding position." 
Marian tries hospital nursing, college settlement work and 
school teaching, but decides to go back to housework. Price, 15 
cents. 

HOW A WOMAN KEEPS A SECRET. A Comedy 
in One Act, by Frank Dumont. For ten female characters. 
Time, half an hour. Scene, an easy interior. Costumes, modern. 
Mabel Sweetly has just become engaged to Harold, but it's "the 
deepest kind of a secret." Before announcing it they must win 
the approval of Harold's uncle, now in Europe, or lose a possible 
ten thousand a year. At a tea Mabel meets her dearest friend. 
Maude sees Mabel has a secret, she coaxes and Mabel tells her. 
But Maude lets out the secret in a few minutes to another 
friend and so the secret travels. Price, 15 cents. 

THE OXFORD AFFAIR. A Comedy in Three Acts, 
by Josephine H. Cobb and Jennie E. Paine. For eight female 
characters. Plays one hour and three-quarters. Scenes, inter- 
iors at a seaside hotel. Costumes, modern. The action of the 
play is located at a summer resort. Alice Graham, in order to 
chaperon herself, poses as a widow, and Miss Oxford first claims 
her as a sister-in-law, then denounces her. The onerous duties 
of Miss Oxford, who attempts to serve as chaperon to Miss 
Howe and Miss Ashton in the face of many obstacles, furnish 
an evening of rare enjoyment. Price IS cents. 

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 



The Power of 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

Hi 



T? A cc ' u ^ 018 604 528 2 i 

Expression and efficiency go nana xxx ..^. — ^'•^ ^ W 

The power of clear and forceful expression brings confi- 
dence and poise at all times — in private gatherings, in public 
discussion, in society, in business. 

It is an invaluable asset to any man or woman. It can often 
be turned into money, but it is always a real joy. 

In learning to express thought, we learn to command 
thought itself, and thought is power. You can have this 
power if you will. 

Whoever has the power of clear expression is always sure 
©f himself. 

The power of expression leads to: 

The ability to think "on your feet" 

Successful public speaking 

Effective recitals 

The mastery over other minds 

Social prominence 

Business success 

Efficiency in any undertaking 

Are these things worth while? 

They are all successfully taught at The National School of 
Elocution and Oratory, which during many years has de- 
veloped this power in hundreds of men and women. 

A catalogue giving full information as to how any of these 
accomplishments may be attained will be sent free on request. 

THE NATIONAL SCHOOL OF 
ELOCUTION AND ORATORY 

Parkway Building Philadelphia 



